


Vetiver

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Clothed Sex, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Masturbation, Office Sex, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Praise Kink, Texting, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Weeks later, Mycroft still cannot shake Sherrinford. The pool of people who have both security clearance and a reputation for discreet recreational sex is shallow.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thediogenes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediogenes/gifts).



> Contains oblique/implicit spoilers for all of season 4, including "The Final Problem." I went with Alicia for Lady Smallwood's first name, figuring that was what the production team wanted to retcon it to, although I am fond of her as Elizabeth. Many, many thanks to That Mycroft Group Chat for a bit of Britpicking and general rhapsodizing about Mycroft's various physical attributes. All remaining Brit English errors are mine, and corrections welcome.
> 
> I reblog and yell about Mycroft, among many other things, on [my tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.

She received the first text five minutes after the PM released them from their briefing, just as she was returning to her office and considering dinner options available at ten in the evening.

_I regret to inform you that I am not interested in drinks at this time._

The number was blocked—as was, technically speaking, her own—and the text unsigned. Nonetheless, she had not given this line out to more than two or three people in the past few months, and only one of them had received _that_ particular invitation, weeks ago though it had been. Before she could finish setting her things on her desk and consider if she needed to respond, her phone lit up a second time.

_If I could be indebted to you any further, however, I would much appreciate it._

She laughed at that, a low, aborted snort accompanied by a familiar twinge in her lower abdomen, and sprawled into her desk chair, head lolling against its leather and one hand on her thigh, before reaching to reply.

_My security clearance is fine, and I aim to keep it that way. I’m not in the mood for being questioned._

More men and women than she could bother naming had texted her in much the same way over the years, direct or coy by turns. She could not be entirely sure that _he_ knew what he was asking for, however, not after his gobsmacked face and slight flutter of the eyelashes that had left her both amused and itchy, distinctly intrigued. The hand against her thigh twitched, fingers rubbing into the fabric of her skirt, as her phone vibrated in the other.

_You question others very competently._

The smile that spread across her face was genuine, as was the instinctive _Good boy_ she typed, before deleting. She glanced at the closed door before moving her hand to her knickers and drawing a finger across the cotton, where the warm pressure that arose made concentrating on her text more difficult.

_You offer me that and not even a drink, after the meeting we just had?_

His reply, when it came, sent another choked snort through her.

_You may drink whatever you like. It is not required. I will have Talisker, if you require. I prefer not to mix pleasures._

She placed both hands on her phone and the phone on her desk, sitting forward with the posture every one of her nannies had drilled into her.

_I do not drink on a stomach of Herself’s biscuits. And I prefer to talk with people who know what they’re getting into._

She drummed nails against the desktop, imagining Mycroft’s fingers around the neck of a Talisker bottle, until the next vibration.

 _I know, in a great many ways_. _And I need_

Yes, in all likelihood, he did, considering how long they both had been alive and surrounded by the worst nightmares of Whitehall. She waited a full sixty seconds or more for the follow-up text finishing the dangling fragment before reaching for her stack of paperwork and pulling free the first memo left to review, depositing it in front of her as she replied.

_Create your excuses and send a car. I will be ready to step into it at 11:04._

* * *

The car was idling outside at 11:03, though she waited the extra minute before finishing doing up her coat and walking into the night air. The ride itself was silent, punctuated only by the thudding of her heart as she worked a finger back and forth across her entrance, her cheek tilted slightly back against the headrest, and she entered the Diogenes Club through the fourth basement door. By the time she entered his cell and was face to face with the portrait of Elizabeth Regina, Mycroft was in shirtsleeves, his suit jacket across the back of his chair and one sleeve garter abandoned on the desktop.

“I rather figured you more straight-laced and uncertain,” she said as the door closed—its lock clicking into place—behind her. “You were lovely all blinky-eyed a few weeks ago, like a first-former stealing glances at the head girl.”

“I believe you heard once upon a time that my brother is known as the Virgin, not me.” Mycroft loosened his other sleeve garter as he spoke, not looking her way. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

She took the chair opposite him and folded her hands on the desk, not a meter from his body. “This meeting is about Sherrinford.”

“Yes.” He dropped the second garter alongside its twin as his fingers worked his cuffs. “Need I say more?”

“For me to psychoanalyze you and the entire otherworldly circus you call a family, yes.” She did not look away from his face. “For you to eat my cunt, no.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Should I—How do you begin?”

“How do I begin to have you eat my cunt? Ah,” she murmured, as his hands jerked. “Not a word you’ve heard in a while.”

Mycroft’s smile was wan as he shifted, leather whispering beneath him. “An easy deduction.”

“The easiest.” She leaned forward, hooking a finger lightly in her necklace. “Tell me, Mr. Holmes: are you even any good at it?”

“It’s a small sample size, though I’ve had no complaints.” His eyes traced the path of her fingertips back and forth across her pearls. “In any case, I cannot judge for myself.”

“And you called me here to judge for you.”

“You come highly recommended.”

“Yes, I do.” She made a mental note to track down where, precisely, Mycroft Holmes had stuck his ears to hear some of her reviews; though she had long admired his assistant, the girl was not someone she’d worked with before. “And though caution on the phone is only to be expected, I don’t judge without first hearing what people want.”

His cheeks, bless them, turned red as she crossed her legs and fingered the hem of her skirt, though he held her gaze. “I had my heart ripped away from me and put back several times in quick succession, as you’ve read.”

She made a soft, noncommittal sound, following the sharp rise and fall of his chest beneath his waistcoat, the faint wispy curl fallen across the edge of his forehead.

“It still refuses to work entirely properly, rather annoyingly. I need a restart. I watched you in the briefing, questioning Herself so confidently, and I remembered what you offered. We’ve worked together, a long time. You—”

Mycroft bit his lip; she raised an eyebrow. He steepled his fingers.

“I’d like to pay my debt to you, but in paying it, for the _reasons_ I’m paying it, I will only end up owing you further. Forgive me for this, my lady, but you are the only one I can trust.”

She had slept with all sorts, though not yet a Holmes, despite Mycroft’s pristine suits and hands, his deadly sharp eyes, his lyrical droning voice. Unfortunate that her first would be in such black times, when, if she squinted, she could pick out the veins in his forehead under beads of sweat.

“You need a therapist, Mycroft, not a shag.”

He laughed, and for a moment his eyes shone with the sort of desperation she associated with wayward peers drinking themselves to death in their Kensington flats, posh ironicism coating something disturbingly human. As he rolled one sleeve to the elbow, the tendons in his hand flexing, the glint faded, leaving only gray weariness.

“I need a great many things, Alicia.”

“You're very unlucky that way.” She extended a hand, palm up, on the desk and locked eyes with him once more. He slid his hand over hers, slowly, the lightest kiss of skin. “I am not. I have a lovely body here in front of me for my nightcap.”

Her fingers crushed his, tightening around his knuckles; Mycroft’s mouth opened, silent and automatic, as she stroked up into the dips of his palms. When he exhaled, his pupils widened.

“Let’s begin with your other sleeve,” she said eventually, loosening her grip. “I quite liked what you did with the first.”

He moved slowly, his fingers slipping on the cufflink. By the time he began rolling, muscles from his nails to his elbow twisting, his breathing was faintly audible. Bared to the elbow, he ran fingertips up and down one forearm, eyes half-closed.

“Such a pretty waistcoat,” she murmured, uncrossing her legs. He swallowed. “You may keep it on. It would be a shame, after all the effort you expend to dress properly, to remove more than necessary.”

Mycroft shivered. “My mouth?”

“You can keep _that_ , God knows.” She got to her feet. “Are you offering?”

He stood as well, backing away from his desk as she slid out of first one heel, then the other. “Anything.”

His chest was solid beneath her palm, his skin warm as she swept her hand up to his cheek. Beneath her thumb his jaw, raspy with stubble, shifted. She slid into his chair with a sigh as the remnants of his body heat and cologne enveloped her.

“Vetiver?”

“A gift.” He was on his knees before she could fully process the motion, looking up at her with dark, liquid eyes that would in all likelihood not be out of place in some Homeric ode. “Another friend. He is very interested in what is _au courant_.”

She felt herself constrict, drawn into a warm and fluttering spasm, and fought to keep her eyes on him as she processed the mental image of him with some tender youth, scarce out of university, in his lap, in this very chair. “Delicious.”

Mycroft’s hand twitched toward her stockinged legs. “Ma’am, may I—?”

She lifted her head to laugh, meeting Elizabeth’s oil stare on the wall behind them. “Do you often fuck Her Majesty, then?” When he froze, back going faintly rigid, at her feet, she reached down for one of his hands, transferring it to her ankle.

“Not in recent memory.” Mycroft’s touch was steady, if overwarm, as he massaged near her anklebone. “She has pride of place in my heart, of course.”

“Of course.” She spread her legs wider, enveloping him within their span, before stretching to place her right leg atop the edge of his desk and gathering her skirt to her waist. “Hands first, if you please, Mycroft darling. There’s only so much one can do whilst being discreet in the back of a civil service vehicle.”

He took his time, working from ankle to knee and beyond, slow curling circles. When she began to itch she slid fingers against his skull and pressed down until he reached for her suspenders, unhooking them in hasty, unbalanced swipes before turning to her garter belt and knickers.

Mycroft’s hands on her hips, massaging up against her waist as he reached behind her for the belt clasps, sent a shock up her spine. She lifted her arse off the chair, hovering with several centimeters of clear air for the long moments it took him to roll the bundle of fabric down her legs.

“Do you still practice, then, my lady?” he asked the inside of her knee.

“Would you like me to do a full split against your face to prove it?” She smiled at the rough exhale of breath against her skin. “Too much like work, which I rather think is _your_ job.”

His hands were better still in her curls, beginning with a ghostly brush around the edge up to her clit. He worked her methodically from top to bottom and side to side, a thumb kissing her clit as the other hand massaged her inner thigh area. She looked back and forth between his bare forearms and the ceiling for the long minutes that passed until she felt wet heat against her thigh.

“Good boy.”

Mycroft’s grip on her hip tightened as she turned her attention back to the black hair now bobbing between her thighs. His lips were thin, true, but they went straight for her opening with little hesitation as one finger continued circling her clit.

“You _are_ lovely, so attentive.” His tongue darted inside her, and she bit back a moan. “Meticulous boy.” A muffled sound—laugh? moan?—against her had her running a hand through his hair. “ _Needy_ boy.”

He did not come up for air until after her thighs had tightened around his neck and shoulders, her foot knocking the desk with the short spasm that whited out the edges of her vision.

“I can do better with more leverage.”

His face was shiny from nose to chin, his lips as red as if he had been biting them. She drew her thumb into his mouth and against his tongue as the throbbing of her cunt abated, sat watching him suckle it lightly, his eyes enormous.

“Eager to please?”

He tilted his head into her knuckles and palm and closed his eyes. She slid her thumb from his mouth and braced herself against him as she shimmied onto the desktop, swinging her legs back and forth before him.

“Sit.”

Mycroft slid into his chair, looking across at her with his hands loosely in his lap. She gently batted them out of the way with a foot, pressing her stockinged toes into his pelvis, where the line of his trousers was distended. Beneath her touch he was hot and rigid, and his lips parted as she ran her toes up and down the placket, tickling at the zip.

“You like it.”

He coughed, barely noticeable except for the jolt of his chest. She pressed her heel in near the base of his cock, watching as he shook his head and two more curls fell across his forehead.

“Stiff, at your age, from only a little cunt?” She leaned back on her elbows and slid her legs apart. “Faithful servant.”

This time it was one finger, positioned at her entrance as he rolled the chair to within centimeters of her. Mycroft’s other hand circled her hip as he pressed his lips to her collarbone.

“Desperate.”

Scarcely even a whisper, but almost ticklish against her nonetheless. She shivered as he crooked his finger inside and she tightened around him.

“A first time for everything, I gather.”

Mycroft’s hair, sliding under the collar of her blouse, tickled her neck as he pistoned within her, short twisting thrusts soothed and extended by his thumb running all along her folds. When she felt hot prickles of electricity zap down one arm, she let one satisfied moan slide between her lips.

“Lovely boy.”

His exhale was shuddery, hot breath mingled with the ghost of vetiver as her own body quieted. Before she could question him, he was back on his knees on the floor, red-faced and big-eyed between her thighs, one wide hand cradling her ribs. She was acutely aware of each fingertip, even through the layer of silk.

“Please.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Please what, Mr. Holmes?”

His fingers clenched; he pressed his face, sweaty and hot, against the inside of her thigh, almost shyly.

“Alicia.”

She could feel his eyelids fluttering intermittently against her skin, the searing brand of his open and gasping mouth.

“Please _what_.”

His groan—bleak, muffled, with a wobbling pitch—made her heart stutter.

“Please. Please let me do it right this time. I promise I’ll be right this time.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair and lifted her pelvis to meet his mouth.

With one of his hands on her rib cage and the other buried in her pubic hair, her legs draped to the knees across his shoulders, she could lean nearly flat on her back, her hand brushing against the cool frosted glass of the globe on the desk corner. She stared at it, the distorted yellow and white blur of her face, as Mycroft tongued near her slit, his nose brushing the edge of her clit every few seconds. Whatever remnants of politeness had held him before were gone, replaced by fevered open-mouthed kisses and long strokes of his tongue. When she bucked up, pressing in more tightly against him, he pressed back harder, the flat of his tongue covering her clit.

“Ah, _Christ_.”

Her heart was pounding in her ears, heat radiating from her clothed breasts up into her face. She rubbed a wisp of hair from her eyes and stared down at the pale fingers scrabbling against her blouse, one finger still damp and shining, as his second hand rubbed at the top of her clit. His eyes, when he glanced up for a moment, were overbright silver.

“Fuck, Mycroft.”

When she came, some minutes later, it was deep, hips tensing, toes curling behind Mycroft as her heels pounded into his back and her head filled with wool. Behind her closed eyelids there was momentary silence. Breathing heavily, she opened them to the sound of choked whimpering.

Mycroft was still on his knees, one hand shoved down the front of his still-fastened trousers, the bottom button of his waistcoat undone and his shirttails askew.

“Marvelous creature,” she whispered, sitting up and flicking her toes against his chest as he moaned. “Sit.”

He scrambled backwards into the chair, not removing his hand from his cock.

“Unzip.”

He bared himself to the thigh, his hands shaking and white against the purplish-red of his cock.

“How would you do it alone?”

He shook his head. “No time.”

She dragged her foot along the underside of his cock, leaning in to capture his chin in her hand as he cried out.

“How?”

He tightened his grip, a narrow tunnel into which he thrust, his arse rising and falling from the chair. His face, scrunched into the widening “O” of his mouth, was loose in her grip, twisting from side to side with his thrusts, stubble burning her palm.

“You were good,” she said, voice low, as she pushed a finger into the corner of his mouth. “Your mouth is divine. Thank you, Mycroft.”

He pressed his face into her breasts and sobbed as he came.

She stroked his hair when he began to stir again, tracing circles down to the nape of his neck. “You were right.”

“About?” Mycroft’s voice was still faint as he straightened and slowly pulled out of her reach.

“This time you did it right.”

Mycroft flushed as he began cleaning himself with a tissue. She said nothing further as she reached for her knickers and belt, and Mycroft did not sneak a single glance as she redressed, pulled her skirt back into its proper position, and stepped back into her shoes.

“Top five, I’d wager, at least with your mouth,” she said as she reached for her coat and purse. “We do have some very skilled men and women working for Her Majesty’s Government.”

His face was calm again, its color slowly draining, and his eyes were fading back to a soft weariness. He smiled nonetheless.

“You are one of them, Lady Smallwood.”

The car pulled into sight as she approached the fourth door again. She apologized for the lateness of the hour as she slid into the back seat, gave her home address, and curled her feet up under her, heedless of the upholstery, pressing her face against the headrest as London moved past. A vibration from her purse in her lap roused her from her daze.

_I am at your service during the next ill-founded argument Herself raises in briefing._

She thought of his hands clenching back and forth across her ribs, the nearly sinful play of tendons in his bared forearms, and smiled as she replied and tossed her phone back into her purse.

_I will save your mouth for something I actually need assistance with._


End file.
